For Who I Am
by River Nymph
Summary: Starting where the movie leaves off, Erik is giving Christine a second choice. An unwanted one... and the only answer is yes. Darkly romantic, eventual EC.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera. Gaston Leroux does. (sob) And Andrew Lloyd Weber owns the musical… although I'm trying to get him to adopt me…

A/N: Greetings to all fellow Phantom phans. This is my first phanphiction, so please review copiously! This is also my ultimate (hopefully) anti-clichéd Erik/Christine romance. Some clichés which I hope to avoid are the following (so let me know if you see any hint of one):

#1. Raoul goes nuts.

#2. Raoul becomes an insatiable womanizer, an abusive husband, a drunk, or all three.

#3. Christine is a self-confident, power-wielding modern-woman-vixen in disguise.

#4. Christine is a Playboy bunny in disguise.

#5. Erik was messed around with in sick ways by his cagekeeper in the fair.

#5. Erik is a nice guy. This one is the worst! Okay, so he's attractive, seductive, dark, sexy, Byronic, mysterious, dashing, mostly good-looking, dominating, dangerous, mesmerizing, strong, clever, powerful, dramatic, manly, and worthy of many hours of drooling. But he is _not_ "nice." Although he would be nice to have around… (smiles dreamily and slips into wild phantasies)

(clears throat)

Anyway. This is based on a little bit of Leroux, but mostly the 2004 movie. It starts during the second-to-last scene in the movie, when Meg picks up the mask. And everything in the movie _does_ happen – including the very last scene – but fellow Erik phans, don't throw anything at me yet! It's not at all like you think. So read on. And please review!

-River Nymph

PROLOGUE

Meg stared at the mask, rubbing the smooth white leather with her fingertips. So this was the end of it all. The end of the Opera Ghost, the lover of trap-doors, the Phantom of the Opera. The end of the Opera Populaire itself, if nobody was able to get the fire under control. She turned the mask over and over in her small hands, looking curiously around the Phantom's home – the Phantom's lair, she corrected herself. Homes were for people, with ordinary lives and ordinary faces. Lairs were for predators…

A sudden noise made her jump. A burly stagehand had emerged from behind a tasseled portiere, looking rather unsettled. "Are there any signs of… _him_?" Meg asked. Her own voice sounded strange to her, and she cleared her throat.

"We shan't ever find him, you know," the stagehand said solemnly, and, after a cursory glance around, continued in a low voice, "for he's a ghost, you know. A regular wraith. He's here now. He'll always be here." And his eyes roved around the room, rather as though he expected the Opera Ghost to materialize through a wall. Meg swallowed.

"He is only a man," she said, in a voice that sounded much braver than she felt, in the hopes of convincing herself as much as the man beside her. Ridiculous! – she would not allow herself to be frightened by a superstitious stagehand. She was no longer a mere impressionable ballet brat, she reminded herself. If she did not keep her imagination in check, she would become as delusional as Christine. "Only a man," she said again, and realized that she was repeating herself, as thoughts of Christine filled her mind – Christine terrified, struggling in a gloomy tunnel far below with that monster. Or worse, entranced by him, trapped in his musical spell.

The stagehand chuckled. "You've much to learn, mademoiselle," he whispered, and hastily scanned the room once more before lifting his torch a bit higher and disappearing behind a thickly embroidered tapestry. No sooner had he departed than three young ballerinas tiptoed in. They hurried over to Meg and inquired after Christine in hushed voices, as though, like the stagehand, they feared that the Ghost could overhear them.

"I don't know where she is," Meg replied anxiously, suddenly realizing that she was whispering as well.

"He's taken her, hasn't he?" stated the smallest ballerina, who could not have been more than ten years old. Her voice was solemn, her grey eyes wide. "The Opera Ghost."

Meg did not reply, but gazed at the embroidered tapestry as though looking through it. She noticed that along the border stretched a continuous pattern of carefully stitched roses, with blood-red petals and intertwining stems, each marked with the Phantom's signature black ribbon.

"Meg?" the little ballerina repeated. "Can she ever come back?"

Meg again did not reply, but bit her lip and walked out to where the majority of the mob was engaged in looting the lair. Something crunched beneath her feet, and she noticed for the first time that the floor was littered with shards of broken glass.

"Meg Giry!"

She whirled around. Madame Giry was standing behind her, hands on hips and with a furious expression. "I will not ask why you have disobeyed me and come down here. We must return at once; the fire is spreading and it may be difficult to get out." She seized Meg's wrist.

Meg jerked her hand away. "But we must find Christine! We must." The tears that she had been holding back since her arrival coursed down her cheeks. "If he still has her-"

"Then she is safe," Mme. Giry interrupted. "Look around you. Look at this." She pointed to the eerily realistic life-size model of Christine, stripped of its wedding dress but still modestly covered in a white corset and chemise. "He loves her. He will not harm her."

"Will not harm her?" cried Meg in disbelief, her eyes glued to the mannequin. "He is a murderer. He _kills people._ He killed Joseph Bouquet! And Piangi! _Onstage!_ And – and that mirror-door, into Christine's dressing room – him watching her in there, in the tunnel - all the time – frightening her – that's not love – he's obsessed – crazy - how can you defend him?" By now she was sobbing. "How _dare_ you defend him?"

"I have known him far longer-"

"Is he a good man?" demanded Meg tearfully. "No! He is cruel, he is-"

"Do not speak of what you do not know," Mme. Giry murmured.

"I know enough!" Meg snapped.

"Are you acquainted with his tunnels?" Mme. Giry replied harshly. "Do you know his snares, his trap-doors? I know that you love Christine. _I_ love Christine. But you cannot find her, and even if you could, you could never take her from him." She paused. "No one can; she is his now."

"So we give up. You've always been resigned to this, haven't you? He's gotten to you too! We've let him win enough now. I won't let him have Christine. I won't. I won't!" cried Meg, trying to tug her wrist from the motherly hand that had once again snaked around it.

"My first duty is to you," Mme. Giry said, and for a moment it seemed her calm façade let through a tiny ray of fright. "I cannot let you into harm's way. It is true, he – he is dangerous. I am not going to lose you."

"But what about Christine? Do you want to lose _her?_ She has always been a daughter to you; we are practically sisters! Please." Her lips quivered. "I can't let her die," she finished quietly.

"He will not kill her."

Meg glared at her mother. "You don't know that." By now she was only half-listening to herself, only half-believing the words that she was spewing out. "He could do anything. Anything at all." Fresh tears sprang up before she could stop them, and for a minute she wept silently.

"There, there," Mme. Giry said at last. "Just come back up. It is dangerous here, with this rabble."

And Meg followed her mutely to the bobbing boat by which she'd arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: No, I still don't own Phantom of the Opera, or Les Miserables. Although I'd give a lot to…

A/N: Another chapter up! Erik might seem like a huge jerk in this one; rest assured, he's just in a rather foul temper – wouldn't you be too?

THE VOICE

Christine sat like a statue in the gondola. All was silent but for the lapping of the water, the dim echoes of the mob through the vaulted passages, and the rhythm of Raoul's steady poling. She thought of the look on her Angel's face as she had left him there, solitary at the edge of the rippling lake. Dwelling on his pained expression – the obsession, the resignation – the unquenchable love – was more than she could bear, and she looked up at Raoul. His eyes met hers in an even gaze.

He poled the gondola to a large niche in the stone wall, leaping agilely onto the wet stones and pulling up the prow to prevent it from drifting away on the dark current. Then he sank onto the roughly hewn floor, running a hand through his wet hair. Christine stared at him numbly.

"Where are we?" she asked finally.

"I don't know."

It had been nearly an hour since they had left the Phantom's lair. Both of them knew that they had been going in circles; Christine was sure that they had passed the same low arches of the ceiling several times by now. Their circuitous path was fast becoming more and more confusing, and, in Raoul's case, exhausting. Christine wondered whether there was any way out besides the route by which the police and the rest of the horde had come.

A sputtering noise turned her attention to the lamp on the gondola, their only source of light. It had been growing progressively dimmer throughout their whole journey. Now she prayed that it would not go out.

It went out.

Christine gasped as they were enveloped by blackness. It felt solid; she pushed her hands through it, squinting, willing herself to see even a faint outline of anything. She might as well have had her eyes closed. She turned wildly from one side to the other – eyes opened or closed, it made no difference. She had never been in such dark before; it was darker than night, too dark to be natural, too dark to be merely unnerving; it was ghastly.

She heard a splash. It was very near the gondola. "Raoul?"

The boat lurched, and she let out a short, involuntary scream. In an instant she felt a wet finger placed on her lips as a weary arm encircled her shoulders. "Shhhhh," whispered Raoul reassuringly. "It's only me."

Shuddering, Christine pulled his hand down and clutched it in her own. "Did you splash?"

"No." His fingers tightened around hers. For a moment they strained, strained to hear anything in the impenetrable darkness. There was nothing.

"Let's _go_," whispered Christine, reaching out and pushing the prow off the edge of the niche. The boat rocked slightly as it slid back into the water. "Please, let's go."

"Let's not," came a cold and familiar voice directly in Christine's ear. "Past the point of no return, there is no going. Only coming."

Christine was too frightened to move.

Raoul shifted in the boat. "You coward," he breathed. "Waiting for cover of darkness, eh? Flee the mob – play dirty tricks – why don't you fight me like a man? Why don't you fight me in the light?"

"I am not a man," replied the voice silkily. "I am the lover of trap-doors and open and shut what pleases me. I apologize to the mob for the inconvenience ladled out to them by my failure to appear. Do send them my regards. As for darkness, seeing as you already failed abysmally against me in the light, consider it a favor that I am giving you a second chance in the dark. As for 'dirty tricks-'" He leaned in close enough to send his icy breath down the back of Raoul's neck. "You look rather dirty yourself."

Raoul spun around, nearly losing his footing on the slippery wood, and threw a roundhouse punch at the place where the voice had been. His fist met the rough wall with a painful thud. With a cry of pain, he dropped it and cradled it in his other hand, grimacing and waiting for the voice to laugh. The voice did not laugh.

"Angel," Christine cried, "why must you do this?"

"Christine," the voice replied, caressing her name, "I told you to make a choice. Did I not?"

"You did," she whispered, shying away from the place just behind her right shoulder, from whence the voice seemed to be coming.

"And what did you choose?" he asked in an eternally patient tone, as though he did not already know the answer.

"I chose you." The image of his betrayed face as she had left with Raoul floated unbidden to her mind, but she angrily pushed it away. "But only to save Raoul. And you told me to go with him. You let me go."

"And?" the voice said, sounding amused.

"So I did. You let me go."

"Not exactly. I told _him_ to take _you_, and leave me alone, and forget all of this, and never tell anybody. But I made no implications that the exchange would be permanent. I never addressed _you_, and I certainly never revoked our agreement."

"We had no agreement," Christine quavered. "You forced me to choose you. I did not agree, not to anything."

"Which is why," the voice stated matter-of-factly, "I now offer you a second choice. A fair choice."

Silence.

"You must choose between us someday," the voice said calmly. "Either you ride away with your dream lover drawn by his fine horses, or… you return to the music of the night. You've tasted it, Christine. You've passed the point of if or when; you know that you must choose me eventually. Once you taste the fruit of the underworld there is no going back, my Persephone. You've passed the point of no return."

Silence.

"If you do not make your choice, I will be only too glad to choose for you, and you know that I prefer music to horses."

"I choose Raoul," Christine said in a small voice. She could hear a sigh of relief escape him, while a sigh of – what, irritation? – escaped the Phantom.

Sounding martyred, the Phantom murmured, "I expected as much. You believe that you love him, don't you?"

"I do love him," she retored. "And I chose him." She shrieked as she felt a wet gloved hand grasp her wrist. "Let me go!"

Raoul lunged towards her, but suddenly felt a rope around his neck. "Have a seat," the Phantom said. Cursing himself, Raoul sat, and the Punjab lasso seemed to slacken slightly.

"Many thanks," the Phantom said lazily, and once again addressed the shaking Christine. "You chose Raoul, but under most unfair circumstances, considering the vast amounts of time you have frittered away in the apparent pleasure of his company while spending so little in the pleasure of mine."

"Your company is no pleasure," she snapped back, feeling bolder. The grip on her wrist tightened, and the Phantom sighed.

"Childish putdowns aside, a matter of enough importance to cause a case of chronic indecision on your part must be settled fairly. Which is why you will return to me until you know me for who I am."

"I know you," Christine said in a low voice. "You and your lies-"

"When did I ever lie to you?"

Taken aback, Christine found herself with nothing to say. "You – you call yourself my Angel of Music-"

"You gave me that name yourself. And no, you do not know me. If you knew me" -Christine felt him move closer, his mouth nearly touching her ear – "you would love me with a greater passion than you can ever dream of raking up for that… _boy_."

"I cannot love you. You have made it impossible."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No," she lied.

"Very well, but you are still coming back with me."

"No," she repeated.

There was a tremendous splash as Raoul was shoved out of the gondola. "I'm afraid that there is no choice; the only answer is yes. Why you continue to force me to such extreme measures is beyond me. It would be much easier for both… for all three of us if you would simply cooperate."

Christine did not answer. Her mouth felt dry.

"This silence indicates that I am holding your lover's head under the water. It is difficult to breathe underwater, I am told," he informed her.

"Let him go. Please let him go!" Christine cried, trying once more to shake the gloved hand from her wrist. Her other hand flailed wildly in the frigid water, but she could feel no trace of Raoul.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes! Yes, very afraid! I am afraid of you, are you satisfied? Now please let him go. Angel," she pleaded, "please. Please let him go."

"You will come with me."

"Yes – please-"

"You will stay with me until you know me for who I am, and then you will make your choice."

"Please," she whispered, "yes, I said yes, now let him go!"

"And you will maintain no communication with… _him_, during that time."

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes. Now let him go!"

Raoul's head broke the surface, and he wheezed, sucking in the icy air and coughing up the bitter-tasting water. His throat stung, and a scratching sensation told him that the Punjab lasso was still around his neck.

"Now, Christine," the Phantom said softly, "if you would be so kind as to spare us further hysterics."

Trembling, she remained silent. She was silent for the rest of their journey, which was remarkably short considering how long she and Raoul had poled aimlessly through the winding labyrinth. In a few minutes they arrived at the entrance to a tunnel about eight feet in diameter, dimly illuminated by a faint promise of daylight from far above. And in the bluish light Christine saw the owner of the voice for the first time since leaving him desolate at the water's edge.

The Phantom was still wearing his costume from "Don Juan Triumphant," but had added – rather haphazardly, it seemed – the scarlet cloak and skull-like mask that he had worn at the masquerade ball. Christine wondered vaguely why he was not wearing his usual black, and the white half-mask that had caused her so much pain. So much pain… and so much joy. She also noted that everything he was wearing was sopping wet, and shuddered at the thought of how cold he must be. He saw her staring.

"Red, the color of the desire," he murmured with a half-smile barely visible, "black… the color of despair. As you can see, my dear, I have not given up."

She continued to stare at him with hatred in her eyes. He sighed, took both her hands in his, and swiftly bound her wrists with a length of thin rope. He did the same with her ankles, then duplicated the entire procedure on Raoul, who (Christine noticed for the first time) was gagged. "I do not mean to hurt you, my angel," he added as he heaved Raoul onto his broad shoulders, "but I have not found you to be trustworthy. I will return to you presently."

He had sloshed nearly out of sight in the ankle-deep water in the tunnel before turning back and warning her, "If you scream, I will hear you. And-" He paused and very deliberately adjusted the Punjab lasso around Raoul's neck. "And you must not damage your beautiful voice." With a last meaningful glance, he disappeared past a bend in the tunnel.

The moment he was out of sight, Christine began to twist her wrists, only sink the abrasive rope deeper into her skin. Several minutes of this brought about no result save torn, itching flesh. She then attacked the know with ther teeth. Again, her efforets proved fruitless. For a while she panicked; the nshe raged. How dare he do this to her! He abduction, the wedding dress, the terrible choice, the kiss… and he had freed her, freed her from his realm of darkness, freed her to marry Raoul and live in the light. For _that_ she had been grateful. Grateful! – and she had returned, given him the ring, shown him that she was not heartless.

_And now, how you've repaid me._ The tears that had been brimming in her eyes spilled over; she must not think of it. She must not think of his double-crossing ways. She had been a fool, such a fool, to ever trust him.

"I'll never pity him again," she said out loud.


End file.
